Slow Burn
by sillysun
Summary: Ginny can't forget what they had, and before she moves on, she has to know if he remembers.
1. Sparks and Embers

She wanted to call the owl back as soon as it fluttered away, was reaching for the parchment tied to its leg even as it left her windowsill. As it disappeared over the trees, she was considering whether she could catch it on her broom and how many owl treats would be involved in bribing it to return the letter.

Six days, 17 bottles of silver ink, and four quills had been sacrificed for that letter. She'd slept with it under her pillow, hoping she could dream the right words, since she certainly hadn't found them during her waking hours. She'd turned over possible phrases in her head as she washed her hair and then promptly forgot them as she reached for her towel.

She'd nearly driven herself crazy writing this letter. It was something she'd felt compelled to do, and finally, finally, she thought it was perfect, that she had said everything she needed to say. She signed her name with a flourish, proud that the letters were smooth and did not reveal the tremor in her hand.

But now the owl was bearing her letter toward its intended recipient, and now she was panicked. Two years without any contact. He might have forgotten her entirely, might _laugh_ when he read her letter. Twisting the band of the sparkling ring on her left hand, Ginny Weasley accepted that possibility as she sank into a chair. The only thought that kept her from chasing after the owl was that he might not laugh. He might not have forgotten.

It had been three years, six months, and 12 days since the first time he'd set her on fire. Her hair like living flame against his skin. Moving as one, as if it had always been this way. Gasping, writhing, shuddering, then holding each other. He wrapped her in his arms and held her through the night, held her as if she was precious to him and he was afraid to let go.

She craved his touch after that, woke up sweating in the nights he wasn't with her, imagining phantom caresses traveling up and down her body. She swore she could feel him. She walked through Diagon Alley, weaving through a crowd of people, and stumbled as someone grabbed her hand, tugging her into a shadowy corner.

She knew it was him, would know that touch whether sleeping or awake, and her skin began to tingle as soon as he leaned her back against the brick wall. So hungry, so hot – he was tugging at her cloak, she was fumbling at his trousers, and they were lost. She would have shed her robes, shed any remnants of a moral code that might have deterred her from following through, but it was him who stopped.

With effort, he pulled away, his lips lingering on hers. "Not here," he murmured, throaty voice making her quiver with need. "Come with me."

They were laughing as they hurried together down the alley and into a building she had never noticed. A nondescript inn, a dark and creaky staircase, a small room. She used to dream of roses and romantic dinners, but their reality was made up of sex and secrets. Now her dreams were of him and him only, and he was enough.

She slipped her robes off her shoulders, and they puddled on the dusty floor next to her cloak. He had climbed into the bed, scooting backward until his back was flush with the headboard, and his eyes never left her as she was revealed to him, inch by inch.

When her body was bare before him, he reached out a hand, and she walked forward to take it. As she slid onto the bed, she leaned down to kiss him, fisting her hands in his hair to find some balance. A small sigh escaped her as their lips met and his arms wrapped around her, his fingers making her shiver as they followed an invisible trail up and down her back.

His lips were already curving into a smile as they parted, and she knew what should happen next, what he wanted. There were few things she would be unwilling to give him, and this unspoken request was perhaps the simplest of all to fulfill. She sat up, positioning herself carefully, and slithered down until she had him fully sheathed inside her. He groaned with pleasure, and his hands quickly moved to her hips. His touch was light, though – he was content to let her move, the change in his breathing the only guidance he offered. His eyes never left hers as she rode him, lifting herself up until their contact was almost broken and then lowering herself back down, taking him in with a slow, steady rhythm. He growled, and she thought she caught the word "torture," but he let her lead.

It was a position designed for female dominance, and she did feel powerful, knowing that swiveling her hips a certain way could turn the man beneath her into smoldering ash. His fingers were digging into her hips with bruising strength as his breathing quickened. She moved faster, and he grasped her hands, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

It was the most innocent of touches, but he combined it with a swift, powerful upward thrust, and it sent her flying. She gasped, abandoning herself to the delicious sensation of letting go completely, and clenched around him as her orgasm washed over her.

She barely heard him grit out her name as he bucked his hips one final time and spilled into her. He was still shuddering through the aftershock when his arms went around her again and he tugged her head down to his chest. She settled into his arms, and they were still locked together when they drifted off to sleep. From frenzied passion to peaceful repose, there were no awkward moments. Everything was right, closer to perfect than she dared believe, and she had been just naïve enough to think they could hold onto it.

Miles away from where Ginny sat remembering, a meeting was interrupted by a frantic tapping on the window. A lackey scuttled over to open it, and the owl that flew in went directly to the head of the table, scattering papers with the rush of air its wings created. There was no name written on the parchment the owl carried, which brought a frown to the serious face of the man to whom the creature was presenting its leg.

He untied the letter with a deft motion and began to unroll it. As the first lines revealed a familiar script, his face blanked and he ordered everyone out of his office. They obeyed instantly. Once alone, the man set the parchment down on his desk and walked to the window. The owl was twittering by his head, hoping for a treat, but he shook his head and it flew away.

He watched it disappear around a corner, thought briefly of following it, and turned back to his desk, where the letter waited. Sinking back down into his chair, he spread it out before him and began to read the only communication she'd made in two years. There was no salutation, no preamble – just her words.

_First I wondered how to start, and then I wondered if you'd even read this. When I was done wondering, all that was left was what I want to say. What I need to say to you._

_I can't forget you. Merlin, I've tried, and I even do a passable job of it during the day. I get up, I go to work, and I don't think of you. I don't think of you while I'm eating my lunch, and I don't think of you when I'm Flooing home. It's when I climb into bed at night that you come to me. Every night. Whether I'm awake or whether I'm dreaming, you're there with me._

_Gods, do I ache for you in those moments. And if that were the worst of it, if that was my only shameful secret, I wouldn't have to tell you. I could go on like that, I think, if it ended there. But it doesn't._

_Maybe you've heard that I'm getting married._


	2. Flickering Flame

**Author's Note: **Just to clear a few things up, I thought I should point out that this is the second chapter of this story. Which means it's not a one-shot. Which means I'm not completely and utterly evil. Thanks.

* * *

He was annoyed at the unsteady heartbeat that the first few lines of her letter caused. She couldn't forget? Good – he certainly hadn't been able to. She was burned into his memory, a brand he would never escape. When he closed his eyes, it was as if her face was imprinted on his very eyelids. Every lovely feature, surrounded by masses of swirling red.

After six weeks without her, six whole weeks in which he could not remember sleeping, he had mixed a dreamless sleep potion, stirring lacewing flies and moonstone counterclockwise 72 times in hopes of finding peace without the danger of finding her in his dreams. He remembered raising the glass of milky liquid to his lips and hurling it across the room at the last second. His mirror had screamed as it shattered, and house elves had scurried to see if Master was all right.

Master was not all right.

Nothing had been right since she'd gone. He couldn't bear thinking of her, but it seemed he couldn't bear not to, either.

And now she had written him a letter. Now she was getting _married._ He buried his face in his hands, feeling himself start to slide back down that slippery slope of blame, the one that reminded him that things could have been different.

He could not have imagined when he first met her that they would end up entangled as they were, limbs and lives blurring into one when they were together. But brave, beautiful Ginny Weasley had set his senses spinning, to the point where every flash of red was a distraction and every throaty, knowing laugh made his head snap around. She was always with him, even when they were apart.

And because of her, he understood what it was to be happy. When she came to him, he forgot that they were supposed to hate each other.

_He takes care of me, protects me. He loves me, even. I know he loves me, because he shows me. I feel it in everything he does. For the longest time, I thought it would be enough. I really thought that being loved by someone who would give himself to me without reservation was what I wanted._

_After all, that's where _we_ went wrong, isn't it? _

_He makes love to me so tenderly, as if I might break into pieces. He is slow, and he is gentle. He's a wonderful lover and he knows all the right places to touch me._

_But when he touches me, I don't feel anything. His hands go right through me. It's the oddest feeling, really – his hands run all over my body and you're still the one running through my heart._

_I've ripped this letter into shreds time and again, but something makes me start over each time. It has to be said, even if you've moved on. Even if what we had is the most distant of memories for you, even if you barely remember my name … _

_I have to try._

He set the letter down, breathing heavily, and noticed that his fingers had started to crumple the parchment as he read. Was she daft? Two years or two lifetimes, his memories of her were anything but distant. She hummed through every cell in his body, had seeped into his very pores.

And yes, he remembered her name, remembered whispering it in her ear as he held her and gasping it out as he loved her. Those familiar, beloved syllables that rolled off his tongue so easily.

He remembered every moment they'd shared, even the one he regretted most. Smoothing the creases out of her letter, he tried to block that memory. Time had not soothed the self-inflicted wounds of that day, especially when he could have gone to her and made it right. Stubborn pride had kept him from doing it, thinking she would come back because she loved him.

He realized now that she'd stayed away because she loved him – because she was too strong to settle for less than everything.

The flat was cleaner than it had been since she'd moved in. With her wand tucked away in a drawer, Ginny had moved through each room, scrubbing and polishing and dusting. When her pale face stared back at her from surfaces never meant to reflect it, she moved on to a new task. Without a task, she would run mad.

Maybe she was mad already. Surely something had to be very wrong inside her head for her to have sent the letter. Gods, the letter. He might have it now. Where had her owl found him? In his office? At home, in bed? Alone? Not alone?

She had to stop thinking about it. She had done what she'd thought right, and that was that. Unless … unless it _wasn't_.

Ginny was spared further contemplation by the pop of someone Apparating into the living room. She froze, reaching out a shaking hand to grasp the wall for support. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady herself, but the smile she pasted onto her face was wobbly.

"Ginny?"

At the sound of the familiar female voice, Ginny's legs nearly gave out. She gasped in relief, letting out a slightly hysterical laugh.

"Hermione," she breathed, then repeated it more loudly. "Hermione! I'm in the bedroom."

Hermione appeared in the doorway and arched an eyebrow when she saw the expression on Ginny's face, a mixture of bald relief and something else she could not define.

"Are you all right?" she asked curiously. "You look so … odd, Ginny."

Ginny supposed she did look odd. Her heart had nearly stopped beating at the thought of who her visitor might have been. Her wards were set to allow very few people in – her family, Hermione, and her fiancé, of course. But without telling Bill, who had helped her construct these defenses, Ginny had added someone else. The person who had torn through her carefully warded heart would find no barriers, magical or otherwise, if he ever decided to visit.

"I'm fine, Hermione," she said, forcing some brightness into her voice. It sounded glaringly false to her ears, but Hermione simply smiled, nodded, and went on.

Part of Ginny wished she could do the same.


	3. Hope Extinguished

**Author's Note:** Thanks to all who've reviewed. And just to clarify for any of those who read my other story, **Of Snowballs and Smirks**: That story is complete. This is the only one I'll be updating.

* * *

There was more to her letter – her elegant script continued for at least another foot of parchment – but the words were incomprehensible to him at this point. The letters had blurred into each other, and his fingers traced the last words he'd read, as if that might help him understand.

She wanted to try, to know if he thought of her. Now, after so long, when she was engaged to another man. One who didn't satisfy her. He snorted in derision, feeling a flash of masculine pride. She thought of _his_ hands on her body.

But she was still getting married. He must not forget that. He shouldn't even be surprised, as it was what she wanted – a husband, a complete commitment. He knew that too well, because as much he had loved her – as much as he loved her still – that was what he had been unable to give her.

It had started like any of their other nights together. They had come to his flat. He had gone to the kitchen to open a bottle of her favorite red wine while she moved around the living room, lighting candles.

A whispered 'Lumos' could have done it, but she refused. He stopped minding after she explained that he was well worth the extra effort. There were several things he no longer minded, not after she explained them to him between kisses.

He moved into the living room, wine glasses in one hand, bottle in the other. Her back was to him, and she seemed not to have heard his approach, so he stood and watched her.

She moved so gracefully, bending to light the tiny flames that would fill the room with light and the subtle scent of vanilla. He had purchased several of the candles shortly after he'd started seeing her, with no explanation for his choice. It was weekly later when he admitted to himself that vanilla was what he smelled when he held her. Even at that early stage, he missed her desperately when she was gone.

They'd eaten dinner in a quiet, little-known restaurant, talking and kissing in the corner booth. The waiter had offered the dessert menu, and he had automatically declined.

He always took her home for dessert. Some sweets were best enjoyed in private.

And she certainly looked edible in that dress, the same rich chocolate color as her eyes. Its tiny spaghetti straps trailed invitingly to a deep V-neck, and the fabric molded itself to her lithe frame, hugging her body until it flared midway down her thigh. The jagged hem stopped just past her knees, and his eyes rested approvingly on her calves for a moment.

He took three long steps, quickly set the wine and the glasses on an end table, and wrapped his arms around her from behind, dropping a quick kiss on her neck. She leaned into him and turned her head to meet his lips.

A long, lingering kiss later, he was leading her to the couch. Her russet hair looked like flickering flames spread out against his white sofa, and he ruffled it with affection as he retrieved the wine. Then he noticed she was still wearing her strappy heels, and he knelt before her.

"I don't think you'll be needing these," he murmured, his fingers working quickly to undo the straps. He slipped them off her feet slowly and set them aside, then settled beside her.

They shared the bottle of wine in comfortable silence, Ginny snuggled up to his side. Perfect, perfect happiness, he thought, and then Ginny spoke.

Her words came out in a drowsy hum, and he turned to her, giving her his full attention.

"What, love?"

"I said I don't want to leave." She was still whispering, but it was deliberate. He thought her voice might even have trembled, but there was no reason for her to be nervous.

"So don't leave," he said easily, tilting her chin up and forcing her to meet his eyes. "It's not as if I mind your staying, silly girl."

He was not imagining it – her full, rosy lips were wobbling and he could see a suspiciously glossy sheen in her eyes.

"Gin?" he asked, letting his hand drop from her face.

"I …" she paused and took in a deep breath. "I don't just mean tonight."

Thick would normally be one of the last words he'd use to describe himself, but it seemed appropriate now, as he certainly hadn't seen this coming. Now he was the one sucking in a deep breath, but Ginny was rushing on.

"I love you," she was saying. "I'm in love with you. I miss you whenever we're not together, horribly so. I just think …" she paused to search his face. "I think we should be together. Always."

Her eyes were intent on his, looking for clues. He hadn't yet managed to speak, though his mind was racing through possible answers.

He knew one thing already: This could not end well.

Reliving that night had to be worse than anything she could say to him now. He picked up the letter again, and as he tried to make his eyes focus on the letters, he caught a faint whiff of vanilla. A tiny groan escaped him. She had as much power over him as she ever had, without even trying.

_I'm not sure which outcome I should hope for. Reason tells me to assume your silence will be the only reply I'll receive to this letter, and so I try to be reasonable._

_It might not be so bad, marrying a man who loves me and prizes my happiness above even his own. I convince myself that I'll be all right with that._

_Then I think of the other ending, the one I barely dare to dream. The one where you come to me. And then I'm so happy I can barely breathe. But reason tells me that after so long, it's a silly schoolgirl's dream that I shouldn't hang on to. I do try to be reasonable._

_If it wasn't for you, I might even succeed._

Ginny tried to focus on Hermione's cheerful prattle and find an interest in the work her friend was doing with cauldron bottoms – picking up where Percy had left off. But after she spilled her tea and then cast an Engorgment charm instead of the Scourgify she'd intended, her eyes filled with helpless tears.

Quietly, Hermione murmured the proper charm and put a hand on Ginny's arm.

"You're not fine," she said. "You're not even close to fine. Ginny, what's wrong?"

The solicitous entreaty was more than Ginny could bear, and when she opened her mouth to answer her friend, she was horrified that her response was a noisy sob.

Hermione, having always been more adept at dealing with practical problems than emotional ones, patted her back dumbly and whispered meant-to-be-soothing nonsense as Ginny wept stormily.

At length, she wiped her puffy eyes and apologized.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she whispered. "I'm just … it's only that … well, there's something …"

She trailed off, trying to make a hasty decision. She had trusted no one with this secret – not the letter, and not the lover it was sent to. Maybe she could finally bare her soul. Maybe that would give her some peace.

"I know I shouldn't keep secrets," she started, and Hermione nodded, scooting closer. She could sense that Ginny's revelation was important – after all, it was rare for Ginny to cry, and even rarer for her to share her problems.

"I should have told someone, but I couldn't." At this Ginny trailed off, and Hermione reached out to her again.

"You can tell me, Ginny," she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. "Please … you can tell me."

Ginny met her eyes and seemed to find something necessary there. She nodded in acknowledgment.

Hermione was sure that Ginny might have shared some deep, dark confidence, but instead her friend's head jerked up sharply, startled for the second time that day by the pop of Apparition.

This time, the voice that called out for Ginny was not female, though it was still familiar. Both of the women looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Hermione," the man greeted. "I didn't know you'd be here." He gave her cheek a quick kiss and turned to Ginny.

"Hello, love," he said, bending to kiss her lips. When he straightened, he arched an eyebrow at the utter silence in the room.

"Someone cast a Silencing spell that I need to remove?" he joked, taking in Ginny's pale face and Hermione's anxious expression. Ginny's mouth opened and closed, and Hermione hurried to fill the silence.

"No, no," she said, forcing a laugh. "We're just fine, Harry."


	4. Ashes

**Author's Note: **Sorry this chapter was so long in coming - hopefully it was worth the wait. The end of the chapter is a scene that's been in my head since before I starting writing fanfic, so I really wanted it to be right. Thanks for the reviews.

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Hermione's voice was too bright, Ginny knew. Surely Harry would not believe … but he did. Perhaps his greatest fault was that he always believed. There was no suspicion lurking in his green eyes as he pulled up a chair next to Ginny's and covered her still-trembling hands with his.

He did not notice.

Ginny yanked her hands back and stood up quickly. Harry blinked.

"Tea," Ginny blurted, moving to the counter so her back was to the table. "Don't you want tea, Harry?"

"Sure, Gin," Harry murmured confusedly. "But …"

"More tea, Hermione?" Ginny said as she placed Harry's cup in front of him.

Hermione looked up and saw the plea in Ginny's eyes. She hesitated for a second, then held out her cup.

"I'd love some."

Ginny's answering smile was grateful, and Hermione watched as she moved around the kitchen. Though she was graceful as always, she was obviously tense, and just as obviously not ready to be alone with Harry.

So Hermione stayed, fumbling through Quidditch talk with Harry while Ginny tried to find her smile. There was a hint of it when Hermione complimented Harry's "Wonky Feint" in his recent match with Puddlemere United, and it flashed briefly when Harry inquired about the fascinating world of cauldron bottoms, but she stayed quiet.

Hermione stayed until the third time she yawned, when Harry poked her arm affectionately.

"If you don't go home soon, you'll splinch yourself," he teased. "I think we can manage here," he added, wrapping an arm around Ginny.

Ginny's smile was strained, but she nodded slightly in response to Hermione's silent question.

"Good night, Hermione," she said softly. "I'll talk to you soon." Hermione studied her face while Harry hugged her goodbye, and when she Disapparated, she did not look entirely satisfied.

Harry reached out a hand to Ginny, and she took it automatically, returning his smile as he led her down the hallway.

He was turning to her, kissing her, tugging her jumper off as soon as they crossed the threshold of the bedroom. Ginny put her arms around his neck and tried to hold on.

"Love you," he whispered into her neck, and she pulled back to look at him. He was entirely hers, she knew. She felt a sudden stab of guilt. He was a good man, and he loved her. Enough to marry her.

_Those_ thoughts were best held at bay, Ginny knew, and she tried to close her mind and focus on Harry as he carried her to their bed. She forced her fingers to unbutton his jeans and willed herself to think of only him.

The first time Harry had made love to her – was it only six weeks ago? Days, weeks, months all blurred together – Ginny thought she could really be his. His hands and lips roamed over her body, and she matched his actions, touching him and teasing him. He groaned into her mouth and thrust deeper, and for a second she was lost in him. She had learned that night that it was dangerous to get lost, because when she closed her eyes, it wasn't Harry loving her.

As soon as she pictured _his_ face, she felt her muscles start to clench and she moved frantically, struggling toward the release that only he could give her, and when she came with a broken moan, his name was on her lips.

Since then, she promised herself every time that she would get a handle on this, that the hands touching her would be the hands she thought of.

She hadn't managed to keep that promise yet, but she continued to renew it.

And now she was fighting the same battle she lost each night. Harry pushed her back onto a pillow, ever so gently, and nudged her legs apart. Ginny's sigh when he did _could_ have been one of pleasure. Harry took it for that, rather than what it really was: Another defeat.

When Ginny's eyes slipped shut, for the first time the scene in her head wasn't a love story – just the end of one.

She hadn't meant to say it. She'd meant it, certainly, but this conversation required nerve and focus – half a bottle of wine had dulled the latter, and she wasn't entirely sure she'd mustered the former. Even if she had, it wasn't a discussion that should have been started by accident.

They would have gotten to this point eventually, Ginny knew. But instead of tiptoeing toward that dangerous precipice, her direct question had shoved them to the edge of it. And there was no way to go back, she thought as she watched him. He had gone entirely still, and his beautiful grey eyes were pained.

He shifted on the couch so he was facing her and took her hands in his, running his thumbs over the soft skin he knew so well. He was stalling, and they both knew it.

Finally, he decided it might be best to start with the simple truth.

"I love you," he said, echoing her words. "I'm in love with you."

She gave him a tremulous smile, and his heart ached. Damn it. He would have liked nothing better than to have stopped there and taken her in his arms, but he had more to say. Even if he didn't want to say it, and even if he didn't know how.

He glanced at his empty wine glass and briefly wished he hadn't drained it so quickly, though he knew the courage to have this conversation wouldn't be found in a bottle. He wasn't sure it could be found in him, either.

She was waiting patiently for him to speak, but he could feel the tension in her hands, just as he could see it in her eyes. Gods, he'd do anything to avoid hurting her – with the exception of lying to her. Which left him with no good option. Hurt Ginny or lie to her. Cut off his left arm or his right. Impossible choices.

"The last thing I want," he said slowly, "is for you to leave." The last thing he wanted, and the thing he feared most. He tightened his grip on her hands and willed her to understand.

"I won't let you be hurt."

At that, Ginny opened her mouth to protest, and he shook his head. "My father …"

"I don't give a damn about your father!" she said hotly. "Draco, don't you see? I'm not afraid of him."

He gritted his teeth and tried to answer her calmly. "You don't understand," he started to say.

Her voice was equally calm, but the layer of ice in it cast a chill over the room. "I understand perfectly. To you, your father, his involvement with the Death Eaters – they're reasons for us to hide. To me, they're excuses. You're not willing to risk it."

"Damn it, Ginny! I'm not willing to risk _you_."

She was shaking her head, and he watched the candlelight dance across her hair as he struggled to compose himself. It was falling apart too quickly – he could feel the seams ripping. It made him desperate, and it made him furious.

"You know what you are to me," he rasped. "You're everything. You're the light in my fucking darkness. Gods, Ginny, you _know_ that. If you know anything about me for sure, it's how I feel about you."

She pulled her hands from his and stood abruptly. He wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to understand, if that was what it would take, but he was still a Malfoy, and there was still the matter of his pride. It was warring with his love, and the battle was fierce.

Ginny watched the emotions play on his face and choked down a sob. She was on the edge of falling into his arms and taking it all back. They could Obliviate the memory and pretend everything was all right. But pretending would not make it so.

His breath was coming in heavy pants as he fought for control, and those storm-grey eyes watched her, waiting for her response.

"You love me," she repeated. "I do know that. But not enough. I would risk everything, Draco, to be with you, be your wife. You don't know how it hurts …" she broke off, and he watched her expression harden. If she could have performed a similar action for her heart, it might have been easier.

"I never thought you were a coward," she whispered bitterly.

He leapt up then, eyes blazing, and took a step toward her, reaching out. She moved backward, the pain evident on her face.

"All or nothing," she said brokenly, and he sucked in a breath, feeling the weight of her words like a physical blow.

She saw him stop, saw the change in his face as he evaluated her words. She saw the decision he made reflected in his eyes and wondered how he could break her heart without saying a word.

She turned blindly, looking for escape, and stumbled toward the door. She could not Apparate, didn't trust herself to Floo … but she had to go. It was impossible to stay in the room with him. Her shoes were forgotten, tucked beside the sofa, and she tried to concentrate on how the carpet felt beneath her feet. Anything to postpone thinking of what she had lost.

Her trembling hand was on the doorknob before he called out to her.

"Ginny, _wait_," he said desperately. She stopped there, standing at the door. Her shoulders stiffened when he spoke, but she didn't turn around.

"I don't want you to go." With her back to Draco, Ginny let the first tear fall, and then she turned to him. His eyes fixed on the tear trailing down her smooth cheek before he lifted his gaze to her eyes.

Her small smile was regretful. "I know that. I know you don't want me to go." She paused and let her eyes wander over ever well-loved inch, wondering if she was doing it for the last time.

"But you don't need me to stay."

She pulled the door open and ran into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind her. It was several minutes before it shut quietly, and Draco leaned against it with the last of his strength.

He'd had to shut the door, for he knew she wasn't coming back.


	5. Kindling

It was like being released from a cage, Draco thought. Having held onto his memories of her so tightly, for so long, he was now flooded with the very emotions he'd tried to repress. Love. Loss. Longing. He was feeling them all, and he was barely able to think. 

His secretary, too, thought him similar to a caged animal when she walked into his office to inform him he'd missed an appointment. A panther, perhaps – stalking around the desk with lethal grace and snarling with barely leashed fury at the interruption.

After she tripped over her feet in her rush to leave, he realized he wasn't in a state to deal with other people. A witch was commanding his full attention, but he wasn't ready to deal with her, either. He had to think, and he couldn't do that here.

He grabbed his wand to Apparate, but before he flicked his wrist, he snatched her letter from his desk and tucked it carefully inside his robes, planning to finish reading it at home. It would be better read in a place where her memory already taunted him. He might still escape her here. He laughed bitterly at the thought. It wasn't the first time he'd lied to himself.

In his living room, Draco glanced around with hooded eyes. He thought of her there often enough, but with her letter folded over his heart, he could almost feel her. It was like taking a blow to the stomach while simultaneously having his cheek caressed, and the sweet pleasure-pain was overwhelming.

He felt himself sinking into memories and struggled to focus. He had to finish the letter.

_I do know you loved me, then. I knew it when I walked out, and I've known it every day since. I thought I couldn't be completely happy without your ring on my finger, but I should've known better, shouldn't I? I learned a long time ago that happiness is independent of material things, no matter what they symbolize._

_I thought I knew what I wanted, what I needed from you. So much time has gone by, and now there's a ring on my finger. Seems silly that it took so long for me to understand what you were trying to tell me that night._

_All I need is you._

Her familiar signature was scrawled below those last words, and it took several minutes before he could tear his eyes from the page.

"Ginny," he murmured aloud. This was the opportunity he'd hoped for without expecting it would come. She was inviting him back into her life, intimating that there was room for him in her heart. But was it that easy? Could it possibly be as simple as it seemed?

He knew the answer to that question. If not for his pride, he'd have gone to her long before this, even without knowing her feelings. But he'd tripped over his pride enough times to know it was fully capable of causing him to fall flat on his face.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, even as he felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought of another chance. There might be more room if not for her fiancé. Damn him … whoever he was.

Anyone who knew him – or his reputation – would have thought it odd to find Draco Malfoy lacking any information he wanted. But his first order of business in the office after he'd lost Ginny had been to order all information on the Weasleys kept from him. He didn't want to see headlines in the Daily Prophet. He didn't want to hear any office gossip about her. As far as he was concerned, she had ceased to exist that night.

Except in his memory.

Now it was time to prepare his offense. Ginny had provided an opening, but he'd be a fool if he went to her without a plan. It already seemed that she wouldn't refuse him when he came to her, and that was good, but it wasn't good enough. He was going to make it impossible.

If Draco's longtime secretary, Twyla Waverly, was surprised to see his face appear in her fireplace at 11 p.m., she managed not to show it. She schooled her expression to remain neutral as he demanded all back issues of the Daily Prophet that made mention of a Ginevra Weasley, and she did not flinch when he ordered them on his desk by 8 a.m.

One grew accustomed to such things when working for Draco Malfoy. Only when his face retreated from the flames did Twyla allow herself to smile. Clearly, this explained the mystery of the letter he'd received. She busied herself with gathering the requested items then – he'd said 8 a.m., but patience was a virtue he'd never learned and one he certainly hadn't been born with.

Displaying the efficiency that had gotten her – and let her keep – her job, Twyla took less than two hours to complete her task. Carefully shrinking the bundle of newspapers, she tucked it into her pocket and Apparated to the office. She knew his habits and his expectations, and she thought she'd guessed at the motivations behind this request, but even so, she was surprised when she walked into his office and found him sitting behind his desk.

"Mr. Malfoy! I …" She hated stuttering in front of him, showing any form of weakness that might cause one of those pale eyebrows to arch in amusement at her expense, but she truly hadn't expected him to be here, sitting in the dark.

"You said eight o'clock," she accused weakly, sure he could see the rapid pulse fluttering in her throat. She dared a glance at him, waiting for the sharp words or the look that signaled his annoyance.

Neither came. He didn't look up, didn't appear to register her presence in the room. His head was in his hands, which were rubbing his temples slowly, as if it ached. Twyla was sufficiently startled at the vulnerability he was displaying to comment on it.

"Are you all right, sir? You look … sir, you don't look well. Is there anything –"

His head jerked up then, and Twyla had to bite her tongue to stifle a gasp. His eyes were red-rimmed and dull with pain, but he still managed to level a fierce glare in her direction.

He didn't speak, but Twyla understood the message clearly enough. _Shut up and go. Leave me._

She hurried to retrieve the bundle of shrunken papers from her robes and fumbled to return it to its original size. Her wand was shaking so badly in her trembling hand that it took three tries before she managed to perform the simple swish-and-flick action and deposit her findings on her desk.

She might have tried to stammer an apology if she hadn't been quite so shaken, but instead she Disapparated instantly and hoped she'd make it home intact.

Draco stayed in the dark for several minutes before he picked up the first newspaper. Twyla had made it easy for him, inserting tabs on the pages where Ginny was mentioned, knowing he wouldn't want to bother hunting for the information he wanted.

He'd have done it, though – Ginny was worth everything to him. Thumbing through pages was a simple task if it brought him the smallest step closer to her. Anything would be simple to do if it brought him closer to her.

He read quickly, following her promotions through the Ministry with little interest. He cared about what she'd been up to, certainly, but there was one bit of information he was particularly eager to get to, and it had nothing to do with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A small notice in one of the more recent issues let him know that she'd resigned suddenly from her job six weeks ago, and his brow furrowed. Why had she left? All the articles he'd skimmed seemed to praise her work, which explained how she'd risen through the ranks so swiftly.

He found his answer on the following day's front page, in the form of an obnoxiously large headline announcing her engagement. There was a picture there, too, but Draco scarcely noticed Ginny's face. All his attention, his fury, his pain – they were focused on the smiling face of the wizard holding her hand.

_Potter. _He might have guessed, if he'd allowed himself to think of it. But his self-imposed isolation from any outlet that might mention her had kept that news from reaching him. Not that it mattered. In this area, his pride served him well. He _knew_ no other wizard could touch Ginny's body and reach her soul. But to think of that great ponce Harry Potter touching his Ginny … the thought roused every primitive male instinct he had.

The thought of his Ginny with Potter was almost laughable, but there was no amusement to be seen on Draco's face. There was grim determination, though - he knew his rival's name now. And finally, a smile curved his lips as he realized he knew exactly how to proceed.


	6. Where There's Smoke

**Author's Note:** Thanks, as always, to all who've reviewed. It keeps me motivated when I'm stuck to know people are actually reading (and even enjoying) this story. Writers live for feedback - at least I do.

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Harry had left early that morning for Quidditch practice, and Ginny'd been grateful for the opportunity to feign sleep when he kissed her goodbye. Pretending to sleep was as close as she could come, though, as she'd spent the entire night listening to Harry snore softly and thinking of Draco. 

She sighed and pushed the quilt back. She'd only sent the letter yesterday. Had she really thought he'd come so soon? Did she really think he'd come at all?

She was really going mad.

And now there was nothing to distract her, since Harry Potter's fiancée had stupidly agreed to give up her job. She didn't need to work so hard, Harry had urged, and from what he'd heard, planning a wedding took lots of time. Ginny had agreed before she quite understood what she was doing, and then it had been too late.

She'd kept herself busy enough the last few weeks, but today the peaceful quiet of the flat was oppressive. Either she could pace in circles and organize her sock drawer for the second time in two days, or she could invent an excuse to go out.

Her mind raced through the possibilities and a real smile appeared on her face when she decided on a diversion. Lunch with Hermione would get her out of the flat, and it would let them continue the conversation Harry had interrupted. The thought of spilling the secret she had guarded so closely for so long made her uneasy, but it was time.

Telling the story could only help. It might help Ginny prepare for Draco's reappearance in her life, or it might help her begin to let go because he wouldn't be coming back. There was no way to know, Ginny mused as she pulled on a blue jumper, but either way, it was somewhere to start. She'd just have to ignore the full body blush and racing heartbeat that remembering him caused and focus on the facts.

Hermione would understand the facts.

An hour later, Ginny was finding it easy to concentrate on simple facts as Hermione munched on a crumpet and waited for her to speak. The difficulty was choosing facts that were relevant. It might not matter to Hermione that Draco's skin was softer and smoother than any man's had a right to be, and Ginny seriously doubted her lunch companion was interested in knowing that he insisted on holding her after they made love.

Facts. Stick to the facts.

She decided to start with something simple and as she started to speak, her eyes fixed on the smear of jam on Hermione's cheek. She tried desperately not to laugh – she had to be serious about this – and in her haste to say _something_, quickly blurted out the name that was never far from her mind.

"Draco Malfoy."

The crumpet dropped from Hermione's hand, and she blinked at Ginny several times, completely baffled. "What? What about him?"

Ginny took a long, shuddering breath. Not the way she'd meant to start this revelation, but then nothing in recent memory had started – or ended – as she'd planned. Why should this be different? She closed her eyes against a sudden vision of him smiling at her and soldiered on.

"We were in love," she said simply. There. All the details were still missing, when and why and how Ginny Weasley could have loved Draco Malfoy, but she had managed to impart the most important facts.

Once upon a time, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy loved each other.

If Hermione was making any sort of attempt to hide her shock, it was failing. Her mouth was hanging open, and her elbow had landed in her teacup when she'd started at Ginny's words.

"Close your mouth, Hermione," Ginny instructed gently, offering her napkin. Hermione glanced down at her sleeve, now dripping with tea, and flushed.

"Maybe we should have the waiter take the plates away before I tell you the rest," Ginny suggested with a faint trace of humor in her tone.

"Ginny," Hermione began, her thoughts whirling madly. "Are you … I mean, did you …" She stuttered out some more inanities and finally croaked out, "Really?"

Ginny didn't answer, but Hermione saw the truth of her admission in the sad smile that crossed her face.

She could barely believe it, let alone make _sense_ of it.

"When?"

The date Ginny named was more than three years ago. Now Hermione's brain was able to start processing information, make connections, begin attempting to solve this unexpected mystery.

She started piecing snippets of memory together, trying to recall what she'd known of Ginny's actions three years ago. Hardly anything, she realized – Ginny had put in long hours helping Fred and George at their shop, and for several months, that was the only place Hermione could remember seeing her. Not at the Burrow, not for an occasional lunch, and not by way of an accidental encounter.

She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but these oddities seemed perfectly reasonable now that she knew Ginny had been hiding a secret. A lover. A relationship with Draco Malfoy. Her lips pursed at that last thought, but she carefully wiped her expression blank when she saw Ginny had noticed.

"He's different than you think," Ginny murmured, meeting her gaze. "At least he was with me. He's a good man, Hermione. He took care of me. We were happy." It hurt to say that, to use the past tense to describe something that had meant so much. It still meant just as much, but as they were dealing in facts, Ginny was trying to come to grips with the fact that a history with Draco might be all she had.

It was enough of a struggle for Hermione to think of Ginny having loved Draco Malfoy. But then her logical mind made another connection, and she gasped in sudden realization. Ginny was still watching her, and she sighed, seeing the knowledge flash in Hermione's wide brown eyes.

"Yes," she whispered, hating the guiltiness that was threatening to overwhelm her. "Yes, that's why I was upset yesterday."

There was compassion in the look Hermione gave Ginny, but it quickly slipped into an odd mix of fear and wariness. Hermione was sure she did not want to know the answers to any of the questions that statement produced, but there was one she could not keep from asking.

"But, Ginny," she said carefully, striving to keep her tone even, "what about Harry?"

Tears sprang into Ginny's eyes instantly, but she answered immediately.

"I can't marry him."

Any sympathy Hermione might have felt vanished, and her eyes hardened. "You can't. Because of Draco Malfoy." Her neutrality was gone, too, as she practically hissed the Slytherin's name and glared at Ginny.

"No," Ginny murmured. "Not because of Draco. Because of me. Because it wouldn't be fair."

"You still love him." It might have been a question. It was certainly an accusation, but Ginny met it head on.

"Draco? I do." Ginny shrugged her shoulders. "I tried to forget him. I thought I'd managed it, even, but …" She looked up and saw the unfriendly stare Hermione was leveling at her. "I was wrong. About lots of things. I thought I could marry Harry. I thought I could be happy without Draco. And I even thought you might be able to understand, that I could finally talk about this.

"There's a reason I learned to keep secrets, Hermione," she finished, fighting hard to not let Harry's best friend see how much this was hurting her. "No one ever understands the truth, even if they think they want to know it. Lies are lies, but they're easier."

She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Trembling fingers plucked some Galleons out of her purse, and she turned to leave before remembering one last thing.

"Just so we're clear," she said softly, waiting for Hermione to look up and confirm that she was listening. "Quite obviously it was a mistake to trust you with this. Don't compound it by going to Harry. I know where your loyalties lie, but Harry needs to hear this from me. And he will – soon," she added, when Hermione's mouth opened to disagree.

"Do that much for me," Ginny continued haltingly, but the words stuck in her throat at the baleful glare Hermione responded with. She would not cry. She'd made herself vulnerable enough for one day. "Do it for Harry, then," she said wearily. "Think of Harry, like you always have, and you'll know I should be the one to tell him."

A short, sharp nod was the only indication that Hermione had even heard her. It would do. Ginny squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and Apparated home. Tears were already spilling down her cheeks as she appeared in the living room, and she sank onto the couch, groping for a pillow to bury her face in.

She cried for a long time. She wept for the pain she'd be causing Harry and at the thought that hurting him didn't necessarily mean having Draco, and she sobbed for the loss of Hermione as a confidante, because it meant she truly had no one. She had to bear this by herself.

When she regained a little bit of her composure, she sat up, hugging the soggy pillow to her chest. Then her tear-bright eyes focused on a strange object sitting on the coffee table, one that hadn't been there when she'd left. A medium-sized box with a card on top. It was addressed to her.

She let go of the pillow and leaned forward curiously. Her name was written in calligraphy, in plain black ink – no clues there. Ginny refused to let herself speculate on who might have left it, even though her heart had begun to thump faster. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until she slid the card out of its envelope and read the short message and huffed in disbelief. Surely there was more to the card. She turned it over, then back again. No, she hadn't missed anything. There were just four cryptic words that gave no clue as to the box's contents.

_You'll be needing these._

Her brow furrowed even as she lifted the lid off the box and impatiently brushed aside several layers of tissue paper. Her gasp shattered the silence in the room and she could barely comprehend what she was seeing.

Finally, Ginny reached out tentatively and touched them, then curled her fingers around the straps to pull a pair of shoes out of the box. Her favorite shoes, a pair of strappy, high-heeled sandals in rich brown leather.

The last time she'd seen them, they'd been sitting beside Draco's sofa. Had he really kept them all this time? That he'd kept them at all, considering how they'd parted, was something. But all this time? Maybe she wasn't the only one who had held on to memories. Maybe she wasn't the only one who had hoped.

She'd thought the shoes were lost to her forever. Of course, she'd thought the same about Draco.


	7. Burgeoning Blaze

** Author's Note:** If one more of my section breaks gets eaten, you can go find updates for this story at Slytherin Commons, the Fire & Ice Archive, or at my LJ (listed in my profile). Apparently I'm an idiot, 'cause everything I try fails to work, and I have HAD it. That said, enjoy the chapter, if I ever managed to get it posted properly. This is officially the last time I will try, and if it posts without section breaks, stone me and move on.

* * *

The late autumn sun felt good on his face, and Draco thought the air smelled a little sweeter than it had the day before. He wasn't ready to admit to enjoying the sound of birds chirping, and he hadn't helped any elderly witches cross the street, but altogether, things were looking up a little. 

He wondered how long it had taken Ginny to find the shoes. His expression turned smug as he remembered delivering the box. It was a risky decision to Apparate to her flat. He'd checked to make sure she still lived there, of course, but he'd had no way of knowing whether her wards were set to allow him entrance.

But they were. Of course they were.

He'd meant to leave the box and go, but standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by her things, he felt close to her. He couldn't bring himself to leave, or to care whether she might find him there. She would know, soon enough, that he had come.

He let his eyes wander around the room, taking in familiar details and cataloguing changes. He stepped over to the mantel and examined the pictures she had on display. A group shot showed her with her family, but hers was the only face he could fix on. There was one of her with Granger and Potter, an arm around each of them, her smile brighter than sunlight. It nearly hurt to look at her, she was so lovely.

There were no pictures of her with Potter alone. He might have guessed as much after reading her letter, but it was something different to see it for himself. He was in her home, and there was no visible evidence of Potter. Ticking off the points in his head, Draco thought he could be satisfied with what he knew to be truth: Potter's real place in Ginny's life was that of a friend, rather than a lover.

Draco let a real smile briefly transform his face before he Apparated away. He would continue the plan, continue to draw Ginny back to him. She'd been the one to leave, and it was fitting that she be the one to come back. It would be a symbolic victory, and his male ego could appreciate that, but what really mattered was being sure this was what she wanted. That he was what she wanted.

He'd barely handled losing her the first time, and he knew he couldn't go through that again. But if things worked out the way he thought they would, he wouldn't have to.

Ginny didn't know, as she sat on the floor holding the shoes he'd returned to her, that it had only been minutes since he'd left. He'd Apparated out and she'd Apparated in. Had she known, she might have wished briefly that she'd caught him there. Then rational thought would have taken over and she'd have realized she wasn't ready to see him, as much as she wanted to see him.

There was time for this to unfold as it was meant to. After two years, it could hardly hurt to wait two more days. Especially since she still had to tell Harry.

Ginny grimaced as she stood, carefully replacing the shoes in their box and walking to the bedroom. She set the shoebox in the closet with its counterparts and wondered how it could blend in so easily, how it could look so innocuous when it held such hidden meaning. Those shoes were the end and the beginning, wrapped in tissue paper.

She had found the words to tell Draco she still wanted him, but it had taken days to get them right. Now she had to sort out the kindest way of telling Harry she didn't want him, couldn't marry him … that it was Draco Malfoy who held her heart. And she had to do it sooner rather than later, because Hermione's dogged sense of loyalty would only give her a small grace period, if any. Not much time to undo what had been so awkwardly done in the first place.

Harry's proposal had been so clumsy – a right mess, Ginny had admitted to Hermione after the other girl's breathy squeals had finally stopped. He'd stammered and stared, emerald eyes beseeching her to understand, and finally he'd just held out the ring to her. She'd answered as he'd asked: Silently. A long moment, an indrawn breath, and she held out her hand to him. She couldn't have found the words any more than Harry could have, though they were tongue-tied for vastly different reasons.

Ginny hadn't just accepted Harry's offer of marriage in that quiet moment. She'd held out her hand and reached for a life without Draco in it, trembling fingers grasping a chance to be happy with someone else.

"Worth a try," she murmured out loud.

He hadn't been to Hogsmeade in months, partly to steer clear of the boisterous, bustling crowds and partly to avoid the memories of a stolen weekend he'd spent there with Ginny. Draco was mildly surprised to find that neither excuse really applied today as he walked down the main street, barely noticing the witches and wizards he passed. No, the memories weren't terrible at all, since he could imagine making new ones.

Those thoughts consumed him so entirely that he walked two blocks past Gladrags before he realized it. More bemused than annoyed, Draco turned around and headed back to his destination. He had some shopping to do.

The saleswitch nearest the door recognized him immediately, and her bright blue eyes widened before she let out a squeak and hurried toward the back of the store. "It's Draco Malfoy," he heard her hiss.

"Well spotted," Draco drawled, following in her frenzied wake. He let his fingers trail over the silky material of the robes and gowns he passed, thinking that nothing could be as soft as Ginny's skin. He'd tried for so long not to think of her, and now he could think only of her. Either way led to madness, but he much preferred the road he was traveling – it led to Ginny, after all.

The owner, Madam Vanora, was waiting at the back of the store, quietly chiding the saleswitch for her ridiculous behavior. "… hardly going to hex you on sight, Stella," she sighed, shaking her head. "Mr. Malfoy!" The proprietress turned the full force of her fuchsia-lipped smile on him, and he inclined his head to acknowledge her.

Stella let out another squeak and scampered into a nearby dressing room. Madam Vanora rolled her eyes, shrugging at Draco. "I've seen billywigs braver than her," she confided. "But she's quite a seamstress."

Draco exhaled a little too loudly, and she rushed on. "Now what can I help you with today? New dress robes?" she asked, looking him over speculatively. "No … that can't be it, you're … impeccable."

At the sound of Draco clearing his throat, she dragged her eyes up until she met his gaze, and he tried to ignore the fact that she might have lingered somewhere in the middle.

"A dress," he said firmly. "I need a dress."

It took less time than Draco had anticipated to find what he was looking for, so he was doubly satisfied as he left the shop with a package tucked under his arm. He'd planned to send it from home, but he was pleased with his purchase and eager to continue moving closer to Ginny. He wasn't about to bother being patient.

The Hogsmeade post office loomed on his left, and he swallowed his distaste for the public owl post system. For Ginny, he reminded himself, pushing open the door. He was greeting by a cacophony of sound, hoots and tweets and fluttering wings. He gritted his teeth and crooked his finger at a Great Gray on the top shelf. It obligingly swooped down and perched on the counter, awaiting further instructions.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asked the clerk.

"I'm sending an express. I need this," Draco placed the package on the counter, smoothing it with his hand, "delivered to Ginevra Weasley. 13 Vauxhall Bridge Road. It's to be delivered within the hour."

He would not give her an opportunity to close the door she had opened. Even if she had wanted to – he found himself smirking at that ridiculous thought – she had set things in motion and Draco would only let them go forward from here. There would be no pause for careful reflection, no time to think things through in a rational manner. He would assault her senses and remind her how much he wanted her. She didn't think of him while she was eating her lunch? That would change. Until they saw each other again, Draco intended to make sure Ginny's every thought was of him.

He couldn't have known (though pride might have let him guess), but that goal had already been achieved.


	8. Combustion

**Author's Note:** So I guess the thing to do, when you're going stark raving mad over section breaks, is to write a chapter without any. Voila! This chapter came together ridiculously quickly, and I'm still happy with it. If you like, review. (Also, Harry fans be forewarned: My all-knowing beta, **whereistruth**, says I'm awfully mean to him in this chapter.)

* * *

Ginny had inherited the flaming red hair that readily identified her as a Weasley, and she was similarly pale and freckled to the other members of her family, as well. But the all-important cooking gene, which by all rights should have been hers, had magically – maddeningly – found its way to Charlie. 

"At least the dragons will eat well," Ginny grumbled as she flipped the dog-eared pages of her mother's favorite cookbook, _Incredible Edibles: A Witch's Guide_. She'd been given all the family recipes, and Molly Weasley had seen to it that her only daughter's kitchen was equipped with everything she might need to put together a four-course feast. Now the only thing lacked, as Ginny surveyed the array of never-used kitchen tools she'd placed on the countertop, was the ability to follow a recipe.

She was beginning to seriously question the decision she'd made to explain things to Harry over dinner – the part of the plan where she cooked the dinner, anyway. But she couldn't stomach the idea of telling him in public, breaking off their engagement just as a Daily Prophet reporter snapped a picture or a Quidditch groupie stopped to beg for an autograph.

The thought of it was as distasteful to her as the concoction she was gingerly prodding promised to be. It was meant to have been meatloaf, but it looked like … a mess. She frowned and bent closer, trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong. Certainly something had, as the meatloaf appeared to have collapsed inward, exposing a raw center. That was fitting, Ginny thought. She was about to break Harry's heart over a plate of misshapen mush.

There was still wine, though, and she hadn't managed to ruin the salad. It would be liquor and lettuce, then. Ginny reached for the bottle of white wine she'd chilled – she'd lost her taste for red approximately twenty-four months ago – forgetting she'd poked her fingers into the meatloaf. The bottle slipped and slid silently out of her greasy grasp, and there was no Cushioning Charm waiting to soften its impact on Ginny's linoleum.

It shattered, contents splashing up onto the skirt of Ginny's carefully chosen dress. Shards of glass skittered across the floor as Ginny froze in place. She wouldn't have guessed, couldn't have dreamed things might go so wrong, but the evidence – well, the evidence was all over her kitchen.

She'd made a mess of things.

Ginny groped for her wand, fingers wrapping around the slim rosewood stick and holding tightly as she gasped out, "Reparo!" The bottle resumed its original shape and Ginny waved away the mess on the floor, feeling her head start to pound. What else could possibly –

A familiar tapping noise in the living room derailed that thought, and Ginny held her damp skirt away from her legs as she hurried to the window. The enormous owl hovering there flew in as soon as it could fit, perching on the mantel and offering its leg.

Ginny quickly untied the package and stood staring at it while the owl flew away. The evening air left goose bumps along her skin, and she shivered as she turned the soft bundle over. Her name, written in the same anonymous calligraphy as the card that had accompanied the shoes. Her fingers were nimble in spite of the residual stickiness, and she opened the flap of the envelope with ease.

Her headache was gone – now it was her pulse pounding as she slipped the message out and prepared to read.

"What've you got there, Gin?"

Ginny whirled to face Harry, thinking that he was far too good at Apparating quietly as she felt a guilty flush creep up her neck. The card fluttered out of her fingers, coasting gently downward as the slight breeze from the window encouraged its flight. Ginny snatched at it and came up empty, and Harry eyed her curiously as he stretched out his arm and plucked it effortlessly out of the air.

"Seeker's reflexes," Ginny murmured, feeling numb.

The entire world, as far as Ginny Weasley was concerned, rested casually between Harry Potter's thumb and forefinger. She wanted to laugh, and she needed to cry. So this was how it was to happen.

Harry was trying to read her face as he rolled the card between his fingers. Ginny decided that the message itself would be less damning than the naked emotions she couldn't begin to hide, and her slight laugh was harsh.

"Just read it."

His eyes widened slightly, and he frowned at her, shaking his head. He thrust the card toward her and her hand shot out to stop him. She pushed his hand away a little too roughly, and she closed her eyes against the confusion in his.

"Read it," she repeated, bowing her head.

She knew when he'd finished because of the soft exhalation he made. Ginny opened her eyes. The card was still in Harry's hand, but his grip had tightened, and the edges were crumpling under the pressure.

"Who wrote this?" he asked, and Ginny was glad to hear the sharp edge in his voice. It would be better for both them if he was angry – easier for her; less painful for him. She sucked in a breath and pushed out the last four syllables Harry would have expected.

"Draco Malfoy," she answered, pausing for a heartbeat, watching his nostrils flare and fury transform his face. "What does it say?"

Harry glanced down, bringing his free hand up so that he clutched the card between both hands. His fingers flexed and Ginny panicked, sure he would rip the card in half and deny her the knowledge of what Draco had said.

"No!" she whispered, reaching instinctively for it.

"What does it _say_?" Harry asked, his tone incredulous. "I find out you're hiding things from me, that you're getting secret messages from Draco Malfoy, and all you can do is ask what it says? Ginny, that's … you're unbelievable."

The card fell to the ground then as Harry's furious gaze focused on something behind Ginny's shoulder. He reached around her and she heard a rustling noise that seemed oddly out of place before his hand darted back and she saw what he held.

She'd nearly forgotten the package.

He was ripping it open, digging his nails into the thin paper and tearing at it furiously before she could find her voice to object. When the paper fell away under his onslaught, Ginny could only stare.

The dress in Harry's hands was the same green as his eyes – a brilliant, beautiful emerald. It looked as though it would cling to her waist, flare gently over her hips and fall to just above her knees. Tiny straps would tie at the back of her neck and trail around to disappear into the center of the bodice. The material gathered itself down the center in tiny, casual pleats from breast to navel and continued down in an elegant fall of green.

"Oh," Ginny breathed, brushing the whisper-soft material with her fingertips, forgetting Harry for a moment, lost in the wonder of the dress Draco had sent.

Harry made a choked noise and thrust the dress into her arms. She accepted it automatically, hugging it to her, but her eyes were sad with sudden realization as she looked up at Harry.

"Harry, let me …" She sighed and soldiered on. She owed him this much – she owed him more – but she certainly had to explain. Or at least she had to try. "I don't know if there's any way to tell you this so you'll really understand, but I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"Want to know?" Harry burst out. "_Want to know_, Ginny? What I want to know is that this is a mistake. A horrible joke Fred and George thought up, a prank gone bad. Something – anything – like that. What I want to know is that this isn't really happening, that you're not about to tell me you're in love with Draco Malfoy."

The name came out as half-sob, half-shout, and his eyes were pleading with her as they stood in silence._ Tell me what I want to know. Tell me it isn't true._

And she couldn't. Tears were sliding down her cheeks in a steady, salty stream, and she reached out for Harry, offering to ease the pain she was causing. When he jerked away, his eyes were dark with hurt, but his jaw was set. In the next second, Ginny felt him take her hand and she nearly threw her arms around him, but then he spoke in a cold voice she'd never heard.

"Guess you won't be needing this."

She didn't need to ask what he meant, because he punctuated the sentence by roughly slipping off her engagement ring. As he stalked over to the window, Ginny glanced down at her bare finger. The ring hadn't even left a mark.

She turned back to Harry when he spoke again.

"I won't be needing this, either," he spat, drawing his arm back, and Ginny's eyes followed the symbol of Harry's love and devotion as he whipped his arm forward and hurled the ring out the open window.

Ginny's tears caught in her throat when he turned around, seeming to look through her. She blinked once, trying to push the tears aside, and that was all the time it took for Harry to cross the room, throw the door open and slam it behind him.

She was alone again, and she felt it keenly.

Alone for now, at least, she thought, dropping to her knees to retrieve the card.

_You'll be needing this, too_, it read, _but not as much as I still need you. Soon._

"Soon," Ginny whispered, and the word slipped out the window into the night.


	9. Forest Fire

**Author's Note:** I'm almost dreading uploading this chapter, simply because of lingering page break issues. I sincerely hope it doesn't interfere with your reading - especially as this, to me, is a significant chapter. Thanks so very much to all who reviewed the last chapter (as well as those who have been reviewing all along): **maddudewalking, Cyranothe2nd, Naruke, neni potter, HippyPottermus, honey-gurl808, JOJO, sabacat, nat, Bungle-in-the-Jungle, Flower4444, Power Punk**, and **Pamie884**.

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When a determined ray of sunshine finally teased her into waking, Ginny tried to convince herself she was ready to face the day. It couldn't be any worse than the night she'd just endured, full of guilt over Harry and guilt over her relief that he knew, no matter how much it had hurt him. No matter how awful and alien his face had looked as he left. At least he _knew_, and that alone meant today would be better. 

Her resolve lasted through her shower, as she tried to scrub away her worry and send it spiraling down the drain, and she stayed steady through a hurried cup of coffee. Why she was rushing, she didn't know – there was no job awaiting her, and certainly no friends expecting her somewhere. The automatic twinge she felt when Hermione flitted into her thoughts was shoved aside after a moment, and she mentally straightened her shoulders. It would be better, this day. The worst was over.

She believed that until her mother's face appeared in the fireplace. Even the green flicker of flame couldn't hide the angry flush staining Molly Weasley's cheeks, and the determined set of her jaw alerted Ginny instantly. She knew.

"Damn," Ginny muttered, darting a quick look as she peeked out of the kitchen. The glower hadn't increased in intensity; Molly hadn't heard. It was the tiniest of reprieves, but she knew she'd be grateful later. She glanced down at her clothes – a faded, favorite jumper and old, comfortable jeans – and pushed her hair behind her ears. If only she had some battle armor handy.

She walked into the room, wondering who could have been so indiscreet, so fast, and Molly's eyes narrowed at the sight of her daughter.

"I've just been talking to Ron," came the opening volley, brimming with indignance, and Ginny had her answer. No enormous surprise there – once a bigmouth, always a bigmouth. She wondered briefly if she knew anyone who felt any sort of real loyalty to her, and when a name streaked across her mind in response, she smiled.

Molly did not. The sight of Ginny's lips curving upward launched a rapid-fire, high-pitched monologue that Ginny only caught bits and pieces of.

" … broken Harry's heart … Ron found him at Hermione's … almost in tears … don't understand you … practically part of the family … hurt him so …"

Ginny seized her opportunity when Molly paused to take a huffy breath, but her soft "Mum" went unheard. She shook her head and reminded herself that she was used to having to make herself heard, that growing up Weasley had prepared her for such situations. But when she snapped her fingers and Molly's head jerked up at the unfamiliar, imperious gesture, she realized that someone else had also taught her how to demand others' attention.

"Mum, listen to me," she said, willing some forcefulness into the words. "Whatever you've heard, it isn't the whole story. Ron doesn't know the whole story, even if Harry told him everything. Not even Harry knows …" she trailed off. A fragmented thought nudged at her – something Molly had said, in the midst of the ranting and raving, was important – but she couldn't force the halves together.

"You don't know," she told her mother firmly, watching as Molly's brow furrowed. Ginny could almost hear her thoughts. _Don't know? Of course I know. You're my daughter, Ginevra Molly Weasley, and I know everything about you. _She saw the words forming on her mother's lips and sighed, beginning to craft a defense to the expected barrage. When Molly spoke, her words were soft and sad, and Ginny's walls fell.

"If I don't know, Ginny, then tell me. Help me understand."

"I will, Mum," Ginny replied. "Once I understand, and once I know the whole story." She saw Molly's hesitancy, knew she wanted to ask when, and gave the answer she hoped was true. "Soon."

Normally the excited squeaking of house elves would send Draco scrambling for a headache potion and fleeing to his office – anywhere where he couldn't hear them, didn't have to answer questions about what Master wanted. Now he barely noticed the more irritating aspects of their presence, so intent was he on monitoring their progress. He might have found time to smile, had he seen Ginny mimicking the snap she'd seen him use so often, but he was entirely focused on making sure everything was perfect.

Making sure everything was ready for her.

Things would be the same, as much as it was possible – the vanilla candles were already scattered around the room, and the scent was so achingly familiar that he had to remind himself she wasn't there. Yet. Their favorite wine was waiting on the counter. He hadn't had a drop of it since the last bottle they'd shared, and he was looking forward to the taste. The little things would be as she remembered them.

But he was determined that the important things would be different. The ending would be right – no. There would _be _no ending. And now the only thing lacking in his glittering, polished domain wasn't a thing at all. He needed her, and it was time to be done with waiting.

He strode to the desk and opened the drawer, removing a quill and a card and quickly penning a short note in bold, black strokes. He would send no more messages after this. There would be no need. She would come.

Half-expecting another message, Ginny found herself staring out the window after Molly had gone. She'd disconnected the Floo – no telling who might want to berate or console her, and her own thoughts were troubling enough without adding the weight of others' opinions. After an hour, she decided it was silly to frown at the sky just because there were no owls winging their way to her sill.

All the clouds looked like sleeping dragons, and she had the ridiculous urge to throw something, prod them into action. But then she remembered that Draco had waited for two years. Whatever "soon" was to him, it would have to be soon enough. He had waited, and so could she.

This time, her resolve needed only to last as long as it took her to rise from her place at the window. Her attention was momentarily diverted; her back ever so briefly turned. _Tap tap tap._ Ginny wondered if the owl had waited for a sign of her patience, and as she drew up the sash, she whispered a message of her own that was lost in a flurry of wings.

"I would have waited."

Though she was glad there was no need to. Eager fingers untied the message, and a sharp fingernail had slit the envelope open before the owl had a chance to hoot softly in acknowledgment.

_We've waited long enough. Seven o'clock._

Ginny smiled – it seemed he still knew what she was thinking. Only hours now to wait. She closed her eyes and let the anticipation sweep over her, and then her eyes flew open. Only hours? She had to get _ready_. At least the question of what to wear was easily decided.

She hurried into the bedroom, hair streaming out behind her as she grabbed the green dress from the closet and made for the bathroom. She disrobed quickly, tossing her jeans and jumper aside. When she slipped the dress over her head, she knew it was a perfect fit before she checked her reflection. No surprise, considering how intimately Draco had known her body. When she smoothed the material over her hips, she could imagine his hands roving over her curves, the dark silver of his eyes that signaled his want. Merlin, he still wanted her …

She was ready far too early, despite the distraction of her anticipation, and had to resort to pacing back and forth in her bare feet. The feel of the cool, hard floor under her toes was a necessity, keeping her grounded, lest she float away on the force of her desire. It was some special brand of madness, how easy it was for her to be consumed by him. There was nothing like this feeling, not in this world or in any other, and as she trod invisible paths in the floorboards, Ginny wondered how she had managed to do without him for so long.

That thought was easily pushed away, and a real smile broke over her face. _It doesn't matter now,_ Ginny told herself. _Whatever we've done, however we've wronged each other, there is still a chance._

And then it was time.

Everything was perfect. All the preparations stood up under the critical eye he turned on them, and at ten 'til seven, Draco found himself adding the final touches. He'd never lit a match before, had never sparked a flame without magic, but he'd watched Ginny enough times to know how it was done, and he carried his tiny torch through the living room, lighting her candles. A hint of vanilla began to fill the air, and he inhaled deeply, trying to take in as much as he could.

He blew out the flame before it could lick at his fingers and vanished the match. He was concentrating too hard on watching the seconds tick by on the clock, and when Ginny quietly Apparated into the living room, he did not hear the faint pop that accompanied her.

When he turned around, she was there, and for a second, he thought he might have conjured her, that she was only the loveliest of memories. He'd had enough practice imagining her nearby – it was impossibly easy to believe her an apparition instead of flesh and blood. When he took a step toward her and stretched out his hand, he truly expected his fingers to pass through air.

But Ginny did not waver and disappear. She met his reaching fingers with her own, and

a shiver of heat raced through him at her touch. He had been mad to stay away from her, no matter what had happened. For two years, he'd burned for her, and now she was here, and he was touching her. It was too much, and it would never be enough. Her fingers were hot on his skin, and his breath had never sounded so loud as it did in the deafening silence between them.

He was fully awake for the first time since she'd left.


	10. Burning

**Author's Note:** I'm all apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, and just a quick, minor gripe. I am well aware of the section break issues. They irk me enormously, and I really am trying to get them worked out. Leaving me a review to point out that lack of section breaks makes the story confusing unnecessary. If it bothers you, this story's also being archived at Slytherin Commons and DracoAndGinny(dot)com. Also, this is not the last chapter, just as an FYI.

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He was as beautiful as ever – that was the first thought Ginny could form. He hadn't heard her arrival, so she had a few seconds to try, fail, and try again to gain a measure of composure. It was laughable to try; she would fail forever. There were no defenses she could build that he couldn't break, whether with a word, or a glance, or a single breath. 

As he turned around and found her there, she was thinking how pointless it was, the idea of walls. She'd constructed them, hidden behind them, and it hadn't helped. She hadn't been able to forget, and when his grey eyes locked on hers, she couldn't remember why she'd even tried.

He stretched out a hand, and if Ginny had had any remaining reservations, the look of tentative disbelief in his eyes would have shattered them. Her hand reached for his, and then they were touching. _Touching_, her mind caroled, glorying in the sensation. _Touching_. His fingers curled around hers tightly, as if he needed to prove she was real.

"Hi," she murmured softly. It seemed inadequate as a greeting, and it was, but there was so much to say and she was spinning too quickly to think of a better start.

His gaze was still fixed on her face, pinning her to the spot where she stood as surely as if he'd cast _Petrificus Totalus_. She couldn't move, could barely breathe, while she waited to see what he would do.

He paused a beat, arching one of those pale gold eyebrows at her, before the corners of his mouth tilted up. The doubt and the tension fell away from his face, and he looked so relaxed – so _happy_ – that Ginny was sure no one but her would have recognized him in that moment. She felt a slight tug and realized he was pulling her hand toward him, and his lips had already brushed her knuckles before she'd guessed what was happening.

And then he leaned down so that his mouth was nearly touching her ear, and she heard his voice for the first time in two years.

"Hi."

He kept holding her hand after he'd kissed it. Her left hand firmly clasped in his right formed a vital connection he wasn't willing to break. It was only after his fingertips had traced every inch of her palm that he realized something was missing. He looked down at the slim white fingers, and noticed a distinct lack of ornamentation.

"Where's your ring?" Surely Potter had to have given her a ring. Had she taken it off before coming? Was it at her flat, tucked into a drawer or hidden under a pillow? Before he could worry about where he stood with the woman he loved, he had to know.

Ginny started, dragging her eyes from his face down to her own hand. "I don't know," she said honestly, shrugging. "Last time I saw it, it was sailing out my living room window."

This time both of Draco's eyebrows shot upward, but he simply nodded. "Lovers' quarrel?" he asked, trying to sound mild.

Ginny eyed him carefully, considering her response. "He found me opening your card. With the dress," she clarified, gesturing at herself. Draco followed the motion and swept his gaze over her, taking in the full effect of his gift for the first time.

He'd known he'd chosen well, but the dress looked far different now that it was draped over his favorite curves. It had pleased him to select the dress, knowing that it suggested enough that other men would go mad wondering what was underneath. He already knew.

She was so fair he wondered if his touch would leave fingerprints on her skin. Tempting thought, to leave his mark everywhere he touched her – but unnecessary, really, since he planned to touch everywhere.

When he looked up, she was watching him, a smile playing over her lips. With anyone else, he might have – would have – minded his intentions being so transparent, but he'd stopped trying to hide from Ginny long ago.

For her part, Ginny was comforted, in some small way, that she could still tell what he was thinking. But though she was glad to see the heat in his eyes, it unsettled her ever so slightly. Two years. It was a long time, and she wanted to fall straight into his arms and never leave, but she thought a bit of restraint might be in order.

Just a bit, though.

Maybe a little light conversation would do the trick. She was nervous and not thinking clearly, because rational thought would not have led her to ask Draco, in a light, breezy tone, "So, how've you been?"

It was worse than inane - it was thoughtless. Easily the stupidest thing she'd ever said, and possibly the stupidest thing anyone had ever said. But once again, she couldn't take back the words.

Draco let the silence hang in the air for a moment, and then he turned silently and walked out of the room.

Ginny gaped after him. Not possible. Not possible that she'd already messed this up, had already ruined the second chance he was giving her. She wanted to cry, or scream, or run after him and fall at his feet ... anything that might undo the damage of her words.

By the time she'd decided on running after him, he was striding back into the room with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Ginny stared at him, not comprehending, and he raised an eyebrow.

"If I'm going to tell you how I've been," he said wryly, filling a glass and handing it to her, "then we definitely need wine."

Draco filled his own glass and took an inelegant gulp, draining half its contents. When he set it down on the coffee table, Ginny noticed an almost imperceptible tremor in his hand. He saw her notice and shrugged.

"Comes and goes," he said casually, and Ginny flinched, wondering if it was her fault, wondering what other pain she'd caused him. "Stop that," he added sharply, glaring at her. "Don't feel sorry for me. You asked me a question, and I'm going to answer it. You're going to listen, and when I'm done, it's your turn to answer."

She nodded mutely, settling her hands in her lap and lacing her fingers together. She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in Draco's eyes at her proper posture, but she ignored it and waited for him to speak.

When he did, she wished once again that she hadn't asked the question.

He wasn't sure he could do this, but he was sure he didn't want to. He didn't want her pity or need her apologies, and he knew it would shatter him to see those big brown eyes well up with tears while he was talking. He needed Ginny to be strong for a little longer, and then they could be each other's strength. But for now, he had a question to answer.

"I've been fine," Draco offered as a starting point, watching as Ginny's eyes narrowed and her mouth opened to contradict him. He held up a hand, gently waving her silent, and went on.

"I've been fine, if fine means I haven't slept an entire night through in two years. If it means that I haven't been whole, maybe not even half, and that even when I'm awake, I'm half asleep. I don't know what I've been, really. I know I'm missing pieces, important ones, and I've tried to find them, fit them back into place.

"It didn't work," he told her seriously, somewhat amazed to be making these confessions so baldly. But pride had no place here – it would only push her away. And all he wanted to do was pull her closer. "It was never going to work without you. Either I didn't know how to let go, or I just didn't want to."

Ginny was staring at him, wide-eyed, with her mouth agape. He tried to curve his lips into a smirk, but the result was a disarming, lopsided smile.

"Like I said," he finished, taking a deep breath and letting the scent of the candles – her scent – calm him, "I've been fine."

Crying would be the wrong thing to do. He would hate that – might hate _her_ for that. So Ginny bit her lower lip very firmly and listened. Before he was finished, she had to resort to digging her nails into her sides, and she could taste a trace of blood on her lip, but her eyes were dry.

"Your turn," he said. "Same question."

She nodded slowly, taking a moment to decide where to start before she thought to mimic Draco.

"I've been fine," she said, the words coming out in a soft whisper. "If fine means pretending to be sick those first few weeks, because I couldn't stand to see anyone. And if people who are fine dream of the lover they left, dream of him each and every night for two years, then I've never been better."

She broke off, struggling to stay in control, but no amount of physical pain would have prevented these tears from falling.

"I was wrong, Draco," Ginny whispered brokenly. "I shouldn't have … I'm _sorry_. I'm so, so sorry. I don't even know how you can look at me, after what I've put you through."

Her hands flew up to cover her face, and she began to sob, consumed with guilt and loss, even though the man she loved was a mere arm's length away. Even if they managed to work this out, it would be hard to think of the time she had cost them without enormous regret. So much pain … all her fault.

She felt him settle next to her on the couch, and his hands quickly pried her fingers away from her face. "Stop that," he told her again, sounding pained. "Ginny, stop. Look at me."

She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might see in his eyes, but something in his voice … She took a long, shuddering breath and looked up.

So much raw emotion was contained in his gaze, but what overwhelmed her was the love she saw there – love, and a total lack of recrimination. Draco was looking at her as if she was the only person who had ever mattered to him, as if she was the only one who ever would. When she looked back at him, she could believe her mistakes didn't matter here. She needed to believe that, and those silver-grey eyes were flooding her with hope.

"How can you?" she choked out. "How can you still …" Draco cut her off, placing a finger on her lips, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart.

"Because I love you," he murmured. "Isn't that reason enough?" He folded her into his arms, holding her tightly, and she nodded against his cheek in reply. He was right. It was enough.


End file.
